One Second of Hope
1882
Everyone flies until they fall. Yet it’s that one second of mid-flight hope that made me think that maybe I’d soar that makes me continue the jump. Eight stories above Baxter Street, a light breeze flared my arms with goosebumps despite the May sun. My bare feet balanced on the warm metal of the fire escape, my eyes focused on the telephone pole that loomed across the paltry alleyway. I tightened my dingy pantaloons around my waist, the strip of fabric that ripped on my last descent danced in the wind. The aroma from Mrs. Locklear’s fresh angel cake saturated the polluted New York air, my stomach whined. Spiked adrenaline rushed through my veins, igniting my need to jump. With my legs coiled and ready, I leaped. My one second of hope passed, I reached my arms out, and all too soon my hands wrapped around and clung to the smooth metal fire escape across the alley.
I slid down the exterior of the fire escape—with a quick wave to the youngest member of the Chang family through their kitchen window—and landed on the cracked pavement beneath.
The alleyway was empty, a gap of quiet amid the chaos of Mulberry Bend. This alley is one of many that lives perpendicular to the bend of low income living that makes up its populous. I bounded back across the alley, reached up and grasped the bottom of the second-floor fire escape. My upper-body muscles clenched as I pulled my body up until my feet rested on the metal railing of the second-floor. Old man Craine rested in his recliner drinking his morning coffee. I waved in greeting, he nodded before turning back to the newspaper, disregarding the funnies.
I continued climbing up the outside of the fire escape until I reached the sixth floor. I slid open the kitchen window that sits in front of the kitchen table. I ducked under Mama’s clothespin line as I crawled through the window. Mrs. Locklear was already seated with a plate of Angel Cake on the table in front of her, and another plate of cake in front of an empty chair. Mrs. Locklear moved in with my mother and I eight years ago and has kept me after school every day until two months ago when I dropped out. Her husband, Hal, passed away over a decade ago while in an explosion aboard the Westfield II, on his first day off of work for months. Since then we have been each other’s biggest confidant.
“Better not let your Mama see you climbing, dear.” Mrs. Locklear nibbled on the edge of her cake.
“I won’t.”
“She suspects.” Mrs. Locklear looked at me from over her glasses, which were pushed only halfway up the bridge of her nose.
“Suspicion and knowledge are two different things.” I popped a chunk of the cake into my mouth.
“You’re too smart to not be in school.” Mrs. Locklear shakes her head. “Especially when you only have one more year until your high school graduation.”
“I’m not meant to sit inside all day. I stayed in school until the law said I could drop out.”
“Susanna—”
The door opened to reveal Anita and her young son. Anita moved into the apartment five months before after immigrating to America from Italy. She barely spoke any English which made conversing with her difficult. The only fact we know about her is that she has a brother on the west coast that she is saving up to see.
“Gotta go.” I palmed the remaining piece of my cake and headed back to the small room I shared with Mama.
“You should be reading the good book.” Mama didn’t look up from sewing. The needle and thread weaved through the seams effortlessly. She was seated on her dark green chair that was handed down from my grandmother. A swath of ribbons was balanced on the end table next to her chair. The coach was covered in various dresses and coats she was hired to repair.
As one of the only seamstresses on this side of the bend, Mama was never short on work. Her shop was right down the street and since I dropped out of school, she requires me to work three days a week with her. The times I am not at the shop, I should be cleaning the apartment because a woman’s work inside the house is just as noble as her work outside of it.
The wooden chair creaks as I adjust my position. Our kitchen table is pushed up against the only large window in the apartment. The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, the moon shone in its place. On the streets below, kids run around chasing balls and stray dogs. Their laughter prickles my ears and pries my attention away from the book of fables in front of me.
“Job’s a bore.” I leaned my head against my hand and flipped the thin page even though I have not read a single word.
Mama huffed, “The Lord’s word is no bore, Susanna. Mind your manners.”
“I thought Job wrote this book.”
“It was Moses.”
“Then it can’t really be the Lord’s word, can it?” I smirked into the window, my reflection shone back. The sound of Mama’s blood boiling was almost audible.
Mama slammed her work onto the tattered ottoman that sat slouched in front of her chair.
“Susanna Nina Hill, you will not disrespect the Lord in this house.”
“Mama, I’m just saying that—”
“Nobody likes a church bell ringing all the time.” Mama’s hands were placed on her hips. “You will never find a husband with a mouth like that. Now bend over.”
“Mama, I’m seventeen.”
“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such a rotten child. Bend.”
I bit down on my lip. The bruises on my ass were still pulsing from the day before. A few more on the top of my legs were just now turning a light green. I stood and bent over the table, while Mama pulled the switch off the hook hanging by the window. The children’s laughter from below floated up to my ears, their giggles fueled the sting as Mama’s switch came down three solid times.
“To your room,” Mama ordered as she returned the switch to the hook.
Silent, I walked out of the kitchen and directly into the adjacent tiny bedroom. I closed the door, set the lock in place and rubbed my burning ass. Our room was nothing special. The only furniture were two small stained mattresses pushed into two different corners, a small wardrobe that my mom had from when she was a little girl, and a wobbly desk sat under the small window. The desk was empty save for a sewing kit and strips of excess fabric. I pulled a small locked box out from under the desk. The only thing that is mine alone. Inside are my science textbooks that I could not bear to return and a few issues of The Prophetic Messenger—an annual astrological almanac. Sitting on top was the front page of yesterday’s paper announcing the much-anticipated arrival of the Barnum & Bailey’s Circus to lower Manhattan. It was set up just on the other side of the tracks.
I grabbed the newspaper and shoved it into my waistband before I crossed the room and lifted a corner of my mattress off the carpet, revealing my hidden hammer which has now created a permanent engraving in the pallet. Mama had nailed my window shut some years before after she caught me sneaking onto the fire escape and practicing my climb. The nails had become easier to pull up as time progressed, and even easier to nail back in place after my return.
Just like always, the nails popped up easily. I placed both on my desk and sat the hammer next to them. After the window was pulled up, I quietly slid out onto the fire escape.
The roof was silent and loud all at once. The silence that stemmed from the watching stars and waning moon was juxtaposed against the hustle and bustle of Baxter below—kids called in for dinner, Mr. Henry’s jazz music danced out of his bakery, and the simple chime of bike peddlers drummed in tandem.
I stepped onto the small roof ledge and began to pace around the top. My arms were stretched out to the side of me. The stars above me winked in greeting, the wind whispered the street’s gossip. Never had I felt so alive than when I was balanced ten stories above the ground. Heights were my self-prescribed drug. A suspension in time to forget all that was expected of me. Some nights, with arms outstretched and eyes closed, my mind rocketed into the cosmic void above me. I could almost hear the crunch of asteroids underneath my feet as I danced across their infinity, my limbs intertwined with aurora borealis—brilliant dashes of pinks and greens.
From a mile away, I could almost make out the illuminated large circus tent. The elephant’s triumphant scream was just a mumble by the time it reached my ears.
I glanced up one more time at the twinkling sky, wishing I could reach that height. I will go and follow the sound of the elephant’s call. If I can’t dance with the northern lights, then I will dance with the lights of the circus.
Once my feet were firmly planted on the asphalt of the alleyway, I turned in the direction of the railroad tracks. I waved at Mr. Henry as I passed his now silent bakery, still smelling of fresh baked bread and cakes even an hour after close. He was elbow deep in flour and as he waved back a small flour explosion formed a flaky cloud around his moving hand.
The train tracks were just a few blocks away from Mulberry Bend and reaching them took no more than ten minutes. I slid my hand over the back pocket of my jeans making sure the few coins I managed to sneak out of Mama’s pocketbook were still tucked tightly within.
My feet balanced on the rusty railroad track. I spread my arms out of the sides of my body and walked with grace toward the circus.
Dense honey locust trees lined the tracks and the moon swirled a cool breeze around with its magnetic pull. I was far enough outside the city that the constant hum of movement and banter were nonexistent. Silence stretched out before me. Silence except for elephant trumpets and shouts of applause. The lights grew brighter. The allure of the circus tent was solidifying as it rose in stature before me.
The train’s caboose forced me to get off the tracks and onto the knee-high weeds. There was a makeshift wall that was put up next to the train and looped into the dense trees.
I stepped back onto the track and propped my right foot up on the tail of the caboose and reached up with my arms until my fingers were able to wrap around the top of the fence. I pushed against the train with my right foot and used the leverage to hoist my body up until I could swing my legs clearly over the fence.
A man with salt and pepper hair stood on the other side of the fence. His mouth wide. A zebra stood next to him, tied to a cable, as he chomped on the dying grass below his feet. “I’ve never seen anyone make it over that wall before.”
“Have you ever seen anyone try?” I wiped my hands on my jeans, my brown eyes connected with his blue eyes.
“No.”
“Hm.”
“Was it hard?”
“I like to climb.” I walked over to the zebra and began to stroke his mane. “I’ve never seen a zebra in person before.”
The man’s eyes were trained on me. He looked dumbfounded.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I took a step back, not sure where to go from here. Is this one of the men Mama and her friends always warned me about? The ones with a screw loose in their brain, who are not sure how to ask permission?
“I don’t know what to do in this situation. Like I said, I’ve never seen anyone climb over the wall.”
“Well, what do you do when you meet someone on the street?” I returned my hands to either side of the zebra’s neck and began to massage the muscles after deciding that all this man’s screws were tight and secure.
“Introduce myself.”
“Susanna.” I turned to face him and stuck out my hand to shake.
He hesitantly shook my hand. “Benson.”
“Benson,” I whispered. “Show me to the show.”
Benson tied the zebra’s lead on a hook that was a permanent fixture on the side of the train.
“I think you still have to pay.”
I slid my finger into my back pocket and pulled out the two coins. With my other hand I reached forward and turned his hand over in time for me to slide the two coins into it.
“Keep the change.”
“This isn’t enough for a ticket, much less a tip.” His voice was dry.
“The newspaper wasn’t clear on ticket prices.” I shrugged. “Are you a stickler for the rules?”
He shook his head. “I’m just new here is all. I’m still trying to earn my keep.” Benson lead us through a maze of tables and chairs. Each table was covered in a red and white stripped table cloth to match the big top. Two large trash bins were found on either side of the area, both were already full of trash. “This is the dining area.”
“What’s over there?” I pointed to a mostly open tent that sat adjacent to the big top.
“The corrals and stalls to keep the animals in between their numbers.”
“Are you in charge of the zebras?”
“Right now, I’m just a hand. I feed, scoop out stalls, and transport animals to and from. I mainly work with the elephants, but they needed help with Oz tonight.”
“I could hear the elephants from my apartment.”
“Is that why you came?”
“I’m not sure.”
Benson led me the rest of the way through the backstage area in silence. For the most part, the area was deserted, everyone was busy putting on a performance. The only people lounging around were men Benson deemed grunts—and they would be busy at work soon enough. Clapping erupted out of the tent as we entered through the side. We were on the far left side of the stage at the edge of a set of bleachers. I looked out onto the center of the ring and saw nothing but empty space. I glanced around and saw that the entire audience had their heads tilted up toward the ceiling. I looked up and gasped when I saw them.
Two people in skintight outfits—a man and a woman—were perched on a ledge almost to the top of the big top. A large net was sprawled about ten feet below them in case they fell.
“How high up are they?” I whispered.
“Forty feet,” he said.
My mouth fell open as the woman inched her way to the edge of the platform, feigning freight. My breath caught in my throat as she jumped toward a short horizontal bar that was hanging a few feet in front of her.
“One second of hope.” I breathed when her hands grasped the bar and she began her act in the air. She flew from one horizontal bar to a second one in time for the man to leap from the platform and clutch the now vacant bar. They began to dance and flip in the air, the lights twisting and turning in rhythm to keep up with their movements. For the first time in my life, I was speechless.
“Can you imagine the rush?” I exclaimed. Benson and I were under the small tent reserved for zebras. He was scooping fresh hay into the stall, while I leaned against the fence.
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m terrified of heights.”
“I live for them.”
“Maybe you should be a trapeze artist.”
My smile faded from my lips and I brushed a strand of hair out of my face until it was behind my ear. “Don’t be silly. I could never.”
“How come?”
“Mama wouldn’t let me.”
“Does she know you are here now?”
I shook my head and brought my index finger up to my teeth and began to nibble on my nail.
“I ran away two years ago.” Benson slid down the fence until he was seated on the fresh hay, his legs stretched out in front of him. I pushed myself off the fence and took a seat in front of him Indian style.
“Aren’t you a little too old to run away?”
Benson’s eyes grew wide, “Old? I’m not old.”
“I just thought,” I pointed his graying hair.
He chuckled. “My hair has had white specks in it since I was a kid. My father’s hair was the same way. I was born in 1861.”
“Oh, you’re only a few years older than me.”
Benson stood, entered the next stall and began scooping out the dirty hay.
“Why did you run away?”
“I realized life in Virginia wasn’t for me.”
“And touring with the circus is?”
“I didn’t find the circus until last year, but it’s enough for now.” He nodded. “Until I find a town I can’t bear to leave. For now, I’m guaranteed three meals a day and a half-piece a week.”
I swallowed and shook my head. “I can’t run away.”
“The girl that hopped the back fence into the circus an hour ago would disagree.” Benson stopped working and leaned against his shovel. “What do you want to do?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Fly,” I admitted. “I don’t know how.”
“Gisele and Javi can teach you.”
“I can’t just join the circus.”
“Sure you can.” Benson shrugged. “Mr. Barnum loves runaways. They’re cheap labor. We can talk to him in the morning.”
I laid back on the cool earth. My eyes drifted up to the bright stars. I could smell Oz from his place five feet away from me, as he still chomped at the grass.
“Come with me.” Benson balanced the shovel on the stall and walked out of the tent. The big top loomed before us. He opened the large flap and nodded his head for me to enter. The smell of dirty hay and sweat encompassed the room. Heat left over from hundreds of humans and animals stuck to my bare arm. The big top was empty except for two men raking the used hay into large piles. My eyes drifted up, where the trapeze sat waiting.
“I can see it.” Benson wiped his hands on his jeans. “Suze, the flying girl.”
“Suze,” I repeated slowly. My mind drifted to my tiny apartment on Baxter Street. I could picture Mama opening our bedroom door open and seeing the evidence of my escape sprawled on my desk. She would curse herself, but mostly she would curse me. I reached my hand down until it traced the back of my thighs, I winced every time my finger found another bruise from Mama’s lessons.
“What do you say, Suze?” Benson turned to me and offered his hand. “Want to fly?”
I glanced up at the stars again, wishing they would tell me my fate. Yet the daunting truth was I knew I longed for nothing more than to fly. I could see it, like I was looking into the future: a crowd cheered from forty feet below as I jumped with my arms outstretched to catch the trapeze. The lights danced and dazzled all around me. I slid my hand into Benson’s and allowed him to pull me to my feet, and it only took a single second.
Emily Garrett is studying for her MA in creative writing at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, TX where she currently resides.